Inside the Mind
by EmmaLorca
Summary: Delve into the mind of a sports psychologist, employed by the WWE, as she contemplates the perils of the lives of the wrestlers she treats. One shot..?


Disclaimer: Whatever you recognize, I don't own. Other than that, it's free game. Enjoy!

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He came into my makeshift office, unannounced, yet again tonight. Twice. I feel for him, probably more than a person in my position should. He _knows_ none of it's real; the losses are all planned out, as are the corresponding victories. Despite this, he's convinced himself that it's all happening because he's not good enough. I keep reminding him that he _is_ at the top of the world, at the head of the game. It's like he tunes it out (imagine that: a male having selective hearing...who would've thought?!). I want to do something more for him but I can't prescribe medication unless the problem is so severe that it's necessary (severity, according to this company, is impending death).

I was trained for over _ten years_ to deal with this. I should be able to tell him how to cope with the boos, cheers, pain, subsequent fatigue, and loss of privacy. Instead, I'm reduced to trying to keep him sane enough to get on the next flight; to get him to the next show and out of the next hotel room has become my (and his) all-consuming goal. I've come to the conclusion that this whole situation is pure insanity.

When I began my doctorate study in clinical psychology, I never would've expected to be seated where I am today. I travel from city to city, nation to nation, with this crew of perfectly structured men and women; they have achieved perfection, as far as their bodies are concerned, and use this to its full potential. This use, and the reaction it creates, causes things no one could dream of. Like I said before, they all know exactly what is going to happen at any given moment. Everything is written out beforehand, much like a set of directions that comes with a board game. Step by step. Nothing is left to question, especially concerning victories and defeats. Why, in the name of God, am I here then?! They _know_ what's going to happen and they've signed a contract signifying their acceptance of this knowledge. Why, then, are their lives so exceedingly difficult?

Most of them, especially the older ones, leave their personal lives at home. The line that separates the two, in most cases, is so severe that it's almost visible. The few who don't—well, those are the ones that I see.

Every night, when I'm sitting in my hotel room, blankly staring at my T.V., I wonder what my life would be like had I chosen a different field. Would I feel as useless? Would I be able to look myself in the mirror and say, "You helped someone today!"? I wonder about things like this and yet I'm the one sitting in the seat of power. How interesting.

Well, I would continue on, but he's shown up, yet again. His blue eyes are so murky and his broad shoulders, once held back with pride, are now slumped forward in defeat. I wonder if a vacation is in order... As much good as it would do, I highly doubt it would ever happen. At least not right now.

There are times that I feel as though he doesn't believe that I feel badly for him. I wish that I could forgo professional behavior, if only for a few minutes, and say to him, "John, I've never seen someone as sad as you! I don't understand it and I don't know what to do! You keep coming in, expecting a miracle and I can't give you anything! You're infinitely infuriating and there are days that I want to just turn you around and march you right out the door! Why does any of this bother you so badly?! Why can't you just realize that it's okay not to be liked? To enjoy your job no matter what happens? I know it can be difficult, John, but trust me when I tell you that everything turns out in the end! Look at how far you've come in the short amount of time that you've been here!" I want to scream at him and hug him, cajole and praise him. But, alas, that's not what he's looking for. I don't know what he's looking for. Maybe this time he'll tell me..? God do I hope so...


End file.
